Mamta Kalia

The urn is there still.
Alive in it
the life of parents’ and husbands’ house.
It still reeks of the desire to live.
It still traps the woman’s wail.
Registered in it is how
she kept looking after her house.
Lest someone else breaks down,
lest someone else goes astray
The urn rolls all day in the house,
trying to save some innocent dreams.
Father
Quivering like a candle in the wind
comes his voice over the telephone.
From far-off,
sad and anxious,
covering miles
over telephone wires.
Grumbling and cursing
the phone in one moment
clinging to it the next
like a child.
Twinkling like a star
dropping, connecting voice.
62 :: April-June 2010